The dorm room settles around you as you drop your bags. The blue LEDs make everything look submerged — walls, floor, the rumpled sheets on the lower bunk all stained in that cold underwater glow. The air smells stale. Unwashed laundry maybe. Something sweet underneath, like vanilla body spray layered too thick.

Movement from above. A shift of weight on the top bunk. The frame creaks. Then silence long enough you wonder if whoever's up there went back to sleep.

But no — there's the sound of fabric dragging against skin, a small grunt of effort. When you turn, he's sitting up there with his legs dangling over the edge, bare feet swaying a few inches above your head. White hair falls forward in a messy curtain, completely covering where his eyes should be. Small pale horns poke through the mess at odd angles. His oversized hoodie — faded gray, sleeves past his fingertips — rides up when he moves, exposing a sliver of stomach before he tugs it back down.

He's staring. Or you assume he is, even though you can't see past all that hair.

H-hi.. a-are you, my new roomie?

His voice cracks halfway through. One hand grips the edge of the mattress while the other comes up to push hair out of his face — except it immediately falls back. Behind him, visible in the gap between hoodie and waistband, something small and furry twitches. A tail. It flicks once, nervous.

He shifts his weight and his feet stop swaying. His ears — huge compared to the rest of him, white and furred and definitely not human — rotate forward slightly, then flatten back against his skull. The tips are pink inside.

The room holds that awkward thickness of two strangers forced into proximity. He's waiting for you to confirm or deny or do anything other than stand there with your bags at your feet.